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“I never could be cool and deliberate on occasions of this kind—a fig for the man who can The little family must have thought me distracted, and for a moment they seemed to have caught the infection. The mother partly rose from her chair, and, looking eagerly into my face, placed a hand upon each of her darling children, as if she thought I was about to abduct them from her. Little Charlie started up eagerly, and pointed to the door, exclaiming, ‘Come, mamma, come—you are rich now— and you said, when you was rich, we should have a new house to live in, and nice books to read, and ever so many things to play with'—while little Helen grasped my hand, and gazed alternately at me and her mother, as if at a loss to account for this strange exhibition of enthusiasm. It was a long time before I could persuade the mother of the reality of her good fortune; and when I showed her the documents, she shook her head mournfully, and remarked that the brethren of the Order were very kind, but so long as she had the ability to earn food, raiment, and shelter, for herself and her children, she could not consent to accept of alms. I well nigh exhausted my stock of argument and explanation before she would be convinced that there was no charity in the matter—that it was hers by right, just as much as if her husband had left it to her in the form of a policy for a life-assurance. At length she did comprehend it, and consented to accept the amount.

“I proposed to her to hire a shop, and procure the stock necessary to establish what is termed a thread and needle store, which the sum now at her command would enable her to do. To this, after a little objection on the score of exposing herself behind the counter to the imperti

nence of shoppers, she assented, with the remark that ‘she had little to do now with pride, and was willing to engage in any employment, not absolutely degrading, to secure the happiness and prosperity of her children.” She has

opened her shop on the corner of Hudson and streets; and if you have a mind to take a turn out before you turn in, I will introduce you.” I assented, and we sallied forth. She received us with a beaming smile, and I fancied that she bestowed manifold glances of exquisite tenderness upon my bachelor friend; but that was none of my business Reader—I profited by the moral of this simple little story. On the following evening my name was presented as a candidate for admission to the Order of Odd-Fellows. One week from that time I was initiated into its sublime and touching mysteries; and when I returned to my lodgings, I found two embossed cards, neatly enveloped in gold-edged satin paper. On one I read the name of the charming young widow, and on the other that of my bachelor friend HARRY BARTON. They were to be “at home” on Thursday morning, at ten o’clock.

NEw York, July, 1846.

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BEHOLD ! my coming muse approacheth near ;
She circles in her flight with pinions strong:
And hark unto her voice: 'tis full and clear;
She sweetly carols as she skims along.
My gloomy thoughts are fled — they disappear
Before her charming witchery of song:
No matter what her chosen theme may be,
'T is all-sufficient if she sing to me.

No doubt she'll rhyme whate'er comes uppermost ;
Of Mr. Smith, perhaps, or Mrs. Brown;
Mayhap 't will be about a finger-post,
Which points each country squash the way to town;
Or else she'll tell of some big Dutchman's ghost
That walks the cabbage patches up and down: -
No matter what her chosen theme may be,
'T is all-sufficient if she sing to me.

I wish of mortal man she'd make her theme;
I long to hear her sing the sordid elf,

Who every morning plans some precious scheme
To aggrandize, at once, his noble self,

Until at last he wakes, as from a dream,
And lays his foolish plans upon the shelf:

Himself is lain beneath the coffin's lid,

With his high hopes and rotten carcase hid.

We seek for knowledge, which we seldom find,
And still more seldom do we save a stock,
But onward wander with a wavering mind,
Which shifts and veers as does a weathercock;
For passion's power stirs up the straggling wind,
Which reason's boasted sway doth ever mock,
Till all our fickleness is fixed by Death,
Who dodges every step to gain our breath.

Poor gains are his — a gasp of putrid air
Absorbed by stealth, or wrenched from wretched man,
Who sweats and toils in partnership with care,
And clings to weary life's contracting span,
Because he fears the grave, whose dark despair
And gloomy portals he is loath to scan:
But Fate forbids escape, and soon he must
Beneath the yawning earth give dust to dust.

Some rob for glory—for religion some —
*T is queer religion, but we have the like:
The bigots of the Bible, or the drum,
Find fit pretext their fellow-worm to strike;
To human suffering they alike are dumb,
They gulp the smaller fishes as a pike:
'Twas ever thus the mass of men must bleed, -
To raise a hero or to build a creed.

Heroes are footpads on the largest scale,
They put their fingers in a nation's fob ;
For, on the world's highway, their arms assail
The weak wayfarer, and whole realms they rob ;
Their sweetest music is the helpless wail
Of weeping widows, and the orphan's sob:
Each hawklike hero soars to glory's view,
By killing such tomtits as I or you.

We wish that those who clamor so for war,
Themselves could struggle through a battle-field,
And see the slaughter streaming, near and far,
And hear the horrid shrieks the dying yield,
When Carnage, sweltering in his crimson car,
Sends thousands to their Maker unannealed:
We wish, too, they could feel what glory is,
And catch a sabre-gash across their phiz!
A brace of pistol-balls, or rifle-bullet,
Might cool their courage 'mid the mortal strife;
Or else to keenly feel within their gullet
A deadly dagger-point or bowie-knife:
Fierce love of war — no doubt they’d soon annul it,
And make their legs do duty for their life!
But their proud, conquering chief—would they forsake him 2
No doubt they would, and wish Old Nick might take him.

There once was one whose title was “the Great” –
A bellowing madman fresh from Macedon —

Whose thirst for gore no human blood could sate ;
Millions he butchered, till the world was won;

And when no kings were left for him to bait,
He wept because his reckless race was run :

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